


Perchance to Dream

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Ghost Enjolras, M/M, Memories, Paranormal, idk what the hell this is im just running with it, psychic grantaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is cursed. His whole life he has been witnessing the last moments of peoples lives. But hes never encountered anything like Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was drunk. I don't even know

Nobody ever really expects to die. It doesn't matter if you're 5 or 105. In peace or at war, sick or healthy, even when you think your prepared. Even when you want it, when you've been waiting for death, there's still that little part of your brain that believes you might pull through, might live another day.  
I'd know  
I've died many times.

Once when I was 3. I drank kerosene. Its pretty pink and smells sweet, I guess its an easy enough mistake for a toddler to make. My throat swelled shut and I stopped breathing. My heart stopped in the ambulance.

Then I was 9, and I learned drowning is a terrible way to go. It was the middle of winter, and I was walking across the frozen river with my sister. We weren't supposed to, daddy told us no, that it was too dangerous. But that didn't stop us. I stepped on a weak spot in the ice and went straight in. It seemed like an eternity before they broke through the ice downriver and pulled me out. I remember the water being so cold my skin felt raw. I remember trying to scream, but all I could do was take in more water. I was panicking. I was thrashing. And then I was still and warm.

The third time was at 15. I lied to the recruiter, told him I was 18. I could tell he didn't believe me, but I could also tell he didn't care. They needed every able body they could get for the war effort. I died cold and half starved, half a world away from home, in a trench with a gunshot to my belly. It took me hours and hours to die.

When I was 17, it was intentional. Everyone hated me, I just wasn't good enough. I would never be what mom wanted. So I took a bottle of asprin and slit my wrists for good measure. Two minutes in I realized I wanted to live, but by that point I was too far gone.

I've died so many times. Old and young. Peacefully and in pain. Every time is different, yet at the end, its all the same. The fear, the cold encroaching on my body, the fuzziness followed by one last second of blinding clarity.

Obviously, each of these were not truly me. But hey, this is the life of a post cognizant. I am haunted by those who are gone, cursed to live their final moments with them. Every spirit leaves an impression, but some are far more... vivid than others. But of them all, none has ever been so vivid as Enjolras. Because in all the many deaths I've been copilot to, his was the only one that didn't hurt.

He was the only one who was never afraid.


	2. Chapter 2

Paris is not an easy city for me to visit. Old cities usually aren't, with so much history and death seeping into their structure. But Paris carries her heartbreak like a badge of honor. Her streets are paved with guillotine tears. Her buildings saturated in Patria and in pain. With such a long and bloody history, I really shouldn't be surprised by how many ghosts wander there. But its always a bit of a shock.

Most ghosts will leave the living alone. Most of them aren't even aware that they are dead. Not really. They get locked into a piece of their own lives and repeat it indefinitely. Sometimes its the moment of their death, but usually its some routine of their life. The commute to work, their favorite park bench, things like that. 

But there are always exceptions. These folks tend to ignore the living. One can only try to communicate with people deaf to their pleas for so long before they stop trying.

Enjolras was one of the second type. 

I spotted him in a café a few years ago. He sat in a window seat staring out at the street, and at first I didn't realize he was a ghost. He just looked so... alive. And beautiful. God, he was beautiful. But he also looked like the type who wouldn't appreciate my company, so I grabbed my drink and left. 

I kept coming back, and he was always there. That really should have been my first clue, but it never even occurred to me that someone that intense, that radiant, could be dead. So I grabbed my coffee and sat down with him.

"So what brings a god down to our level, Apollo?" Admittedly not my best line, but it was what I had. 

The look of surprise when he realized I was talking to him finally clues me in. "You... you can see me?" He asked, blue eyes wide with shock. 

I looked down at my drink and muttered "yeah... I gotta go."

He panicked. "Don't leave! I haven't talked to anyone in so long. Please!"

I really didn't want to get mixed up with a ghost again. It never ended well. But I just couldn't walk away. "Look, if irruption to have a conversation here with you, everyone will think I'm crazy. And I happen to like it here. So I'm gonna leave. You can follow me, okay? We can talk somewhere else for a while." 

His face brightened, and my stomach clenched. I was gonna regret this, for sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got drunk again and wanted to wax poetic about ghosts some more. Sue me.

The man walked in silence, without looking back even once to check if I was following. Of course, I was. I was much too surprised by his ability to see me to even consider turning away. It had been so long since one of the living acknowledged me.

Jehan had been a sad, gentle soul. I took his suicide hard.

But that is not important to this current story.

I followed him closely down a few streets and into a small park. He stopped, put an small device to his ear, and finally turned to me.

"So how long have you been stuck in that café?" He asked abruptly. I was a bit taken aback. What a rude way to start a conversation.

But I suppose it made sense. Jehan told me.once that most spirits he encountered had very little in the way of memories beyond their own death. That I was a bit of an anomaly.

"I died for freedom in June of 1832." I replied quietly. Even after all this time, it still hurt. "

He stared at me, aghast. "You... you were one of the barricade boys." He said, almost reverently. 

And then it was my own turn to be surprised. "Truly, you know of us? History isn't usually kind to failed revolution."

He gave me a small smile. "Maybe not, but my high school history teacher was a Pontmercy, and very proud of her heritage."

"Marius would be pleased to know his name lives on. I imagine he married his angel and made many pretty blonde children." I said with a laugh. I was happy, that my friend had gone on and lived a full life. Marius had only returned to the café once, after that night. I always had wondered what became of him. "But please, I still do not know your name, monsieur. I was called Enjolras, when I yet lived."

He blinked at me for a moment, not speaking. "Do you spend your life this befuddled, or is it just me that makes you so agog?"

I believe the sarcasm brought him out of his haze. "I'm Grantaire. And I've never met a ghost quite as.... aware as you. Most dont know their own name, let alone remembered the lives of their friends." He paused and ran a hand through dark curls. "So how much do you remember of your life? How much can you remember from after you di-... afterwards? " he finished lamely. 

I appreciated the attempt at tact, belated as it may be. "I can recall all the events of the barricade night clearly. Sometimes I fall into them, and I lose sense of this  
afterlife. As for before that, I recall much, but it is... intermittent. Some days I can perfectly recall my friends, their voices, their names and their passions, and some days I cannot even bring their faces to mind. And as to more current times, each day is much the same. One can only watch people who do not notice you for so long, before the days begin to blur together."

I didn't mention Jehan. I wasn't quite ready for that.

He said nothing, just looked down at his feet, brow furrowed in thought, his little black device forgotten in his hand. 

"I can show you, if you wish."

His eyes snapped up to me. "You... you are asking?"

"Of course. I would not force a vision of death upon the unwilling. That is cruel."

He smiled again, but this time it was twisted, sardonic. "You would think so, wouldn't you." He sighed heavily.

"I'm going to regret this. But yes. I think I do want to see."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this is confusing. Im not sure how to go about writing shared memories?

The street became cobbled beneath my feet. My hands curled unconsciously around a gun. Before me stood a barricade, built of what looked like whatever the hell people could find, chairs and doors and boards with nails still sticking out of them, haphazardly shoved together to make a wall about five feet high. The sky was shot through with early dawn grey.

I wanted to look around, but I knew I could only look where Enjolras did. This was a memory, not a movie. I was just a passenger. I could hear his thoughts in my brain, could see from his eyes and feel his shirt on my back, but I could not control what happened.

We stared at the top of the barricade, his thoughts whirling. 

The people did not rise.

We are going to die here.

We will die for nothing.

We will die for freedom. And that is not a small thing.

Suddenly, in the midst of these overwhelming thoughts, I felt a hand clasp our shoulder. We turned to see a young man, no more than 25 (Combeferre, Enjolras' memories told me) looking at us, concerned. 

"Enjolras, this is not your fault. We all knew the risks." He said gently.

Enjolras felt nothing but melancholy. Not for his own death, but for that of his friends. Combeferre was a great man, intelligent and kind, and he was about to die. 

They would all die. They refused to leave. 

But he took a deep breath, and cleared his mind of such thoughts. Some day, the people would rise. They would look back and regret that they had not stood with les Amis on this night. 

My death will mean something. 

It must.

And Enjolras found that, while he had many regrets, being where he was was not one of them.

The next few moments were a blur. The police arrived and suddenly there was no time for thought, only action, as les Amis made their last stand. 

Only the very last moment felt clear, our hand thrust into the air, red flag in hand, as we stared defiantly down the barrel of a gun and waited for death. 

There was no fear. Only a calm sense of acceptance.


End file.
